Not Dogs, Roosters
by ashatanii
Summary: The dogs they dont fight anymore.It's a good thing we're not dogs.Sometimes a single step has a lot of work behind it.
1. Chapter 1

Not Dogs, Roosters

i

Christie rolled over in her sleep. Jim resisted the urge to check his clock; it would probably wake her. It wasn't fair that she should have to share his insomnia.

"_Why don't you just find another home? Huh? Nobody wants you here. This place ran fine without you. Don't you see that?" _Marty's words wound through his head like a shrill wind appearing unexpectedly and difficult to banish.

"_You're right, you're right…" _Marty was right. And no he hadn't seen that. He'd assumed just because no one said anything other than Marty, that the others had accepted him. Hell, he'd even convinced himself that Karen was getting as good as she got with him as her partner but…

"_This place ran fine without you. Don't you see that?" _No, he hadn't seen that. And maybe there was more he wasn't seeing. God knew things slipped by him and he just stood there oblivious half the time.

That same day, when Tom found that background on Dorsey, Marty had gotten real upset at Jim's comment. And there was a scuffle or something, Karen had gone silent and Tom had ushered Marty out the door but there it was, another situation, another interaction sliding straight past him and he was unable to get a grip on it, connect with it or the people on so many levels. How many more had he not even been aware of sliding past, let alone wondering what they were?

And Marty was pushing him, all the time, to keep his mouth shut, to give up his gun, to protect Karen. Maybe Tom and Karen felt the same. They weren't the sort to speak up like Marty. Maybe this day at a time thing, with Karen, was still going and he was just too stupid to know.

"_Nobody wants you here_." The thought of being accommodated, of being a token player tore him up inside. The fear that he wasn't reading these people right, that the working relationships he thought he was forging was just a façade and wouldn't allow him respite. The moment the case was solved and his mind was free to roam, it returned to worry at this bone that never seemed to shrink, no matter how many cases he solved, no matter how many times he proved himself. All it took was one mishap, one comment from Marty or the boss and the fear loomed as large as life.

"_You know, not everything Russo says is a dig at you."_

"_Yeah, we just have different styles." _He knew his smart remark, his quick comeback, was defensive but sometimes he just lost the fight to keep on top - to maintain his perspective.

Not that he couldn't do his job. Now, he knew he could. Lieutenant Fisk had done that, given him the chance and now he knew he could do it. It was just so hard here. Not only did he have to work the cases but guard his back and justify himself every day. Maybe…

Jim hesitated at the Lieutenant's door. Last night, after turning it over in his head endlessly he'd decided to find out. The others were all out, now was the time to talk to the Boss.

"Jim, that you out there?"

"Ah, yes, Boss, I need to run something by you." Jim took a couple of steps in.

"If this is about Marty hassling you, you have to work that out on your own. And I do _not _expect to hear you started a fight."

"I won't throw the first one but if Marty brings it, Sir, I won't step back."

"So this _is_ about Marty?"

"No, well, yes, but that's what I'm trying to avoid, and I just need to ask you something."

"Alright what is it?" Fisk sounded skeptical and Jim hadn't even opened his mouth yet. Jim shifted on his feet; this had been a bad idea. He kicked the door stop away and closed the door.

"Marty and I talked and he pointed out that the squad was doing fine until I got here, that I wasn't needed. Now, I've run a few cases and I am grateful for the chance you gave me..."

"You quitting, Detective Dunbar?"

Jim's head snapped up. "No, not at all, but maybe this squad isn't the right place for me." If he stopped now he'd never get this out. He pushed on. "If I requested a transfer, do you think there's any other lieutenant who would look at my record and take me on?"

Fisk looked at his newest detective. Gary still felt uncomfortable sometimes, watching the unfocussed gaze, seeing him parked at a crime scene. Still found himself handing Jim scrawled notes he couldn't read and using visual cues that never made the mark. But, Fisk prided himself on his ability to know what was important, and this detective had shown he could still solve crimes, find perps and pull his weight, despite the profound disadvantage he worked under. A smile edged his face. He wasn't about to allow Marty to run off his newest detective.

"You don't like being under my command? I'm too tough on you?"

"Not at all Sir, in fact, I …" Jim seemed lost for words for a moment. "I appreciate that you don't cut me any extra slack. That I can do my job and not end up a token."

"So? You can't handle the flack from Marty?"

Jim bit his lip. It wasn't how he would put it, but… "I am concerned that my being here is having an adverse affect on the rest of the squad and is… you know… a distraction. I thought maybe…"

Fisk interrupted him again, "Dunbar, you know how this works. I get sent whoever _my_ Boss thinks will work well in my squad. I am allowed to toss the ones I don't want to keep; the ones who don't make the grade." He paused to let that sink in. "That _is_ what would be thought of you if I allowed a transfer. That I had decided you weren't good enough."

Jim nodded.

"I take it there will not be a request to transfer?" Fisk wanted this clear before he proceeded.

"No, Sir." Jim began to turn back to the door.

"Good, then take a seat for a minute, Jim." Fisk shifted from disciplinary mode to solution mode.

Jim took the two steps to the chair that usually stood in front of Fisk's desk. It was there, he sat.

"I know settling into a new squad is difficult for any seasoned detective and more so for you, given the circumstances."

Jim was quiet. He resisted the urge to scoff. That was an understatement.

"You're no rookie, but you've had to earn basic acceptance just as if you were. You've come in as a seasoned detective but, whereas another older man would only have had to jump through a few stupid hoops to be taken seriously, you have it much harder."

Fisk watched Jim's face closely; he was a hard man to read at times. "But you need to understand this is no different for Russo than if you were any other detective. He see's a detective who has quite a few years of good solid experience over him coming in and taking turf. He uses your blindness as a weapon, just like he'd use it if you were fat, or Armenian or something. You've shown us you can do the job so, the fact that you're disabled; it's no longer really about that."

Jim hid the internal flinch. He used the word blind, he couldn't avoid it, but disabled - he'd never agree, inside.

Fisk searched Jim's stoic countenance, but nothing showed. "Marty's a good detective and he can see that you are. The sooner you realize this is not about your blindness but it's the usual rooster fight, the sooner you'll sort it out. As I said once before, it's not all about you."

Jim nodded again.

"Go, solve some cases, take a step back and do what you have to do to sort it out with Marty."

Dismissed, Jim stood and went to leave. As he opened the door Fisk asked one more question.

"Jim, you've transferred before, and here, in this team you've got Karen and Tom behind you. I doubt you ever settled for less than lead detective in the past, in reality if not in title. What did you do get the young roosters on your side before?"

Jim smiled, before admitting, "Teaming up with them at pool and helping them win money used to be effective."

Fisk chuckled. "I take it that's not going to work now?"

Jim gave a rueful smile and shook his head. He hadn't even been in a pool hall since the shooting.

"Well, you need to get creative then, find some other strategy."

Jim returned to his desk. Maybe the boss was right. Despite the rampant fears of the night before, he had to acknowledge he had settled in. He could handle the job now without falling exhausted into bed every night. Maybe it was time to make an effort on this issue. What could he do to build rapport, to show Marty he was just one of the guys?

That evening, Christie came in late from a long day of wrestling too many photos into too small an issue. "This fashion game, it's such a fight to get the designers to agree to anything less than a full spread. I wish they'd just learn to share," she complained. He got her a white wine and stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders. Once she had let off her steam and he had agreed that all fashion designers were true cads, he felt it was safe to change the subject. "Honey, are you free tomorrow night?"

"I can be, why?" Her interest was peaked. Jim asking for time together was unusual.

"I want to go a pool hall and I want your help." He continued the slow gentle massage, finding each vertebra on her neck and releasing the tension of the day.

"A pool hall? What for?"

Jim sighed, why wouldn't Christie just say yes and help? Why did he have to explain every little thing? "The Lieutenant said I have to find a way to fit in better with the team."

"And going to a pool hall fits in how?" She drained her glass and handed it to him.

Jim went to the fridge for more wine. "A few weeks ago Marty invited me to go bowling. Then he asked if I played pool. He must have forgotten my answer because he asked me twice since then." He returned and held out the glass.

"On the table, I'm lying down."

He put the glass down and found her prone body. He slid the zipper of her dress down and began working her middle back.

"And you thought if you could play pool with him he'd what, accept you into the team?" He had reached her lower back and she almost purred with pleasure, softening what was a fairly harsh question.

He sighed, "Maybe."

There was a long silence. Jim imagined her skeptical look. He kept rubbing, probing; forcing her muscles to give up their tension.

"I just need you to help me find out if somehow I could still play."

"Okay…" She sounded reluctant. "Honey, I know you were an ace before but…"

He gave her no opportunity to back out. He took her left leg in his hands, removed her shoe and started at her toes. "Let's just find out. Maybe, if I could get the positions on the table, and had some practice, maybe I could hold my own. Then I'd have something I could do with the guys. After all they say pool is about geometry."

"And you've always said what a load of bullshit that was." She couldn't keep the skepticism out of her voice this time.

Jim scowled. "Well, I hope it's not, because bowling – man I would hate to have to do that." The very thought of bowling brought his head down, his own shoulders were tight and he rolled his head around.

Christie laughed. "Actually yeah, I would hate to see you in a bowling uniform; that would be tragic. So pool it is."

After dinner, she took him to the couch and returned the massage. "You really think there's a chance you can play pool again?"

Jim shrugged. "I really don't know, but if I don't try I'll never know."

It was a few more weeks before Christie found the time to take Jim to the pool hall. They dressed down; slumming Christie called it, and headed for a small hall Jim remembered from many years ago. He'd been playing pool for pocket money since he was ten years old. At one stage, he'd even thought about turning pro but then the reasons to get out of the hood escalated and he'd joined the service. Still there were very few pool halls in the area that he _hadn't_ played. Hopefully this was one where he wouldn't be remembered.

They left Hank at home and Jim asked Christie to keep his cane in her bag. He wanted to draw as little attention as possible. Once in the basement hall, Jim was riveted by the familiar sounds: the deep rumble of men's voices as they called their shots, ribbed each other and argued, the crack of the cue ball on its target, the softer thump of a cushion hit, and the beautiful sound of filling the pocket.

They waited half an hour for a table. He had a beer and she held a white wine in her hand, said it wasn't good enough to drink. But she had been helpful already, not acting bored and whiny, he was grateful and as she described what was happening in the game in front of them. He found it pretty easy to follow and visualize the rolling balls on the green surface. He remembered how much he had loved the game. They worked out a system for her to describe the position of the balls and although he was frustrated he couldn't estimate the speeds the players were using, he got a pretty good idea of how the game was unfolding. He built a grid in his imagination and visualized the game in stages, the positions of the balls, the runs.

Needing more information to get a moving picture in his head he tried to describe the different strokes they might use but Christie didn't seem to be able to see the differences in how they held the cue, the angles they used or the trajectory they aimed for.

As the players were getting close to wrap up, he began listing the possible shots they could play and was rewarded when he had described every one they chose.

The game ended and Jim stepped up to the table. Christie handed him a cue – it felt bitter sweet. Some of his most fond memories of youth were with a cue in his hand, but now, perhaps only fifteen months after he had last held one, the slender tapering length reminded him more of a long white cane than anything.

He touched the tip, examined the ferrule and slid his hand along the length checking for dents along the tapering shaft. "Christie, are there more cues in the rack?"

She brought over another. He checked this one in the same way.

"Christie, bring me the white ball and one other."

Then Christie watched as Jim carefully set the shot. He found the centre line of the table and placed the about three feet in from the end. Then he lined up the white ball, checked it a few times, and stepped back.

"I need you to stand at the end and watch where the second ball hits.

"It's red. "

"Okay, watch where the red ball hits because I'm going to get you to show me."

After a deep breath he checked the placement of the balls once more and bent over the table. She watched as her husband seemed to line up the balls by sight and then jumped as a really loud _crack_ sounded. The red ball flew to the other side of the table and went straight into the pocket. Jim's smile was huge. "Good cue."

Christie felt elated, the first ball was in, mind you it had been all set up, and there was no way you could go touching the balls on a pool table like he was doing even if it was just to know where they were.

"Give me the other cue, Honey," he said as he re-set a ball.

Jim changed cues and the second ball whacked into the cushion about ten inches from the pocket. "Oh, Honey, don't worry," she commiserated.

Jim looked surprised, "Oh no, I was testing the squirt of the cues - to see which one was better. I haven't started trying yet."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Not Dogs, Roosters  
ii

"Oh." She felt a little silly, as she often did when he used his teacher voice. But she had promised to be helpful tonight and so she would be. "Do you need me to show you where it landed?"

Jim nodded and walked around the table, the back of his hand trailing the edge. "About here?" He asked her.

"Um, yeah." She moved his hand from where it rested a few inches to the left. "This spot." Then she showed him where it had ended up, watching his face but all she could see was that he was thinking.

"I'll use the first cue."

"Will I put this other one away?" She held up the second cue.

"Sure, unless you want to learn some stuff while we're at it." Jim heard some people stepping up and the last thing he wanted was an audience. Perhaps they would think he was just teaching her if he showed her some shots too and they would drift away again, whereas the spectacle of a blind man trying to play pool might well attract an unwelcome audience.

"I'd really like that."

"Well, let's start with basics. Come." Jim held Christie around the waist while she bent over the table. He showed by example how to hold the cue and then, checked her grips at each end, running his fingers lightly over her hands. He shook his head and patted her hands.

"You're too tense, Christie. When you hit a pool ball, you need to be relaxed or the tension will translate into a wobbly ball. Where is your drink?"

"Here."

"Drink it all, quick." She grimaced and drank, then giggled. It reminded her of their courting days when they'd go 'slumming' quite a bit and he'd show off his skills at pool or show her off at the bar. She would drink quickly to rid herself of the nerves she felt at going out into unfamiliar territory, sometimes with people she would not normally have associated with.

"What you giggling about?" he whispered into her ear. "You having _fun_?" He put on a scandalized voice.

And she giggled more; it was rather like when they first went out, he was all over her, hands on her hips, lips on her ear. In those days, he had been able to send another man away with a glare and his jacket swinging open to reveal his badge or his gun.

She turned and looked him in the eye, then dropped her gaze. It seemed unfair sometimes that she could look at him and he couldn't look back. "It's like when we first met." She whispered back keeping her little sadness out of her voice.

"Mm, wanna go parking on the way home?" he used his old line.

"Win me a game first, Jimmy, win me a lota games." She returned her old line.

A wistful look traveled across his face and disappeared under the more usual visage he wore since the shooting; not exactly blank but calm and ready, showing nothing. He blinked slowly, as if avoiding eye contact. "Well, let's see if I can manage the basics first hey?"

He showed her the different weights of shot; what you would use for a close shot, one where you wanted depth or one that had to bounce swiftly off a cushion before it hit its mark. "Most newcomers to the game just hit too hard too often. Especially in the early stages you're trading speed for accuracy."

"And later?"

"Once you know what you are doing, you can be accurate and forceful, but it takes a good eye."

Every shot he showed Christie, he also took: straight shots, cue shots, draw shots and stun shots. All the basics and slowly one at a time until she got it right. As he showed her, reviewed the fundamentals himself, and tried them again, the idea that this was beyond him faded. Maybe this _wasn't_ another thing he had to accept or replace.

In the beginning he'd estimate where the ball ended up, walk around the table and she'd place his hand on the ball to show him the exact location. After a while, he felt confident that her grid calls were fairly accurate and the image in his head was solid. With the cue ball, she'd tell him where it was on the grid, then he'd hold his hand above the place she named and she'd move it if he wasn't accurate. He'd need some concessions, but maybe not too many, maybe he could do this. His mind fired up, his concentration sharpened and he felt a cool calm shift into gear replacing the adrenaline of the first moments.

Christie hardly remembered a shot. The differences seemed minor to her. After all, they were basically chasing little round balls around a table. But the feel of her man's hands on her, guiding her, moving her into position and leaning over her as she leaned over the table… Christie could feel the wine thrumming in her veins and found herself moving back, bumping into Jim, pretending it was an accident. She could see by the smile on his face that he wasn't so sure. She flirted with her husband in a way she hadn't done since well before he'd been shot.

Their time on the table was up too soon and Christie led him to the bar where she had a second wine. It didn't taste that bad after all, and he had another beer.

"Do you think we'll get back on a table again tonight?" she asked. She wouldn't mind some more of that closeness, but then, perhaps going home right now would be the best way to take advantage of the mood they had built.

"How would I know?" He voice was a little harsh, his expression incredulous. She did this so often, asked him how she looked, where something was, things that shoved it in his face. Then his expression softened. She didn't mean to, she just didn't think. Besides, it was his problem not hers and he shouldn't take it out on her. "Sorry, ah, can you see small stacks of money on the edges of the tables?"

"Yeah, on some."

"That's players marking their spot. So if you can see a table with no little pile, we can tag it." He held out a stack of coins. "Just match their amount."

The only table without several stacks lined up was the one in the centre. Jimmy wouldn't like that, she knew, he hated the thought of anyone watching him when his blindness showed. But he wouldn't know if she didn't tell him and she had had fun and he had said he was eager to see if he could still do this. "Can I help you little lady?" A short biker with a beer gut sauntered over when he saw her watching the table. She plastered a smile on her face to cover the disgust she felt.

"Um, well, I was wondering if my husband and I could have this table when you were done."

"Which one's your husband?"

Christie clenched her jaw. These places were so macho. It was always about the men; women here were basically ornaments. She smiled again. "He's the blonde police officer at the bar."

A bigger version of the man in front of her stepped up. "Table will be clear in about twenty minutes," he pointed with his beer at the first biker, "when I've finished wiping the floor with this little runt." The big man's voice wasn't as rough as his buddy. Under there somewhere was a cultured man. "You and your husband can have the table then if that suits."

Christie nodded and watched as the biker did a double take at Jim. Christie was used to such looks; it usually meant someone had just realized he was blind. "Your husband, he looks kind of familiar. Have you two been in here before?'

"No. We just thought we'd try this place, you know?" She smiled again and cocked her head.

He leaned over her, closing the space between them and whispered, "I wouldn't mention that he's a cop out loud Miss. It's not exactly a ticket to popularity around here."

"Thanks." She felt absurdly grateful to this man. She found it hard to look him in the eye. His arms drew her gaze instead. His tattoos were almost mesmerizing; snakes, coiled around his muscles, defining them, and making them even larger.

She looked away. Jim must be wondering where she was. He was sitting straight up and no longer facing the bar. "Thanks."

The big man smiled; she noted good, even, clean teeth. He nodded and went back to his shot.

Christie hurried back to Jim.

"That took a while." Jim had always been the protective sort, fairly jealous. She wondered if prompting a little jealousy would work in her favor tonight. No, probably not.

"It took while to find a table," she lied. "About twenty minutes the man said."

Jim nodded and picked up his beer. "How about we go watch and learn some more before we give it another go?"

She picked up her wine, he held her arm and they took seats that overlooked the table where the bikers played.

Heads together she described what she saw; he explained and predicted shots. His smile was wide and genuine. She hadn't seen him like this for a long long time. "You're really getting into this."

"Yeah, it's good." He took another slug of his beer. "You know that night Tom and Marty took me out to the bar and we watched the basketball game?"

"Hmm." She remembered him coming home nostalgic, something about missing being out with the guys. But he was such a homebody these days; she didn't think he wanted to go out. She dragged her thoughts back to what he was saying.

"It was really good of them to invite me, and even though I know they were trying to get me to spill about Karen and her boyfriend, I really felt included but…"

"Mm?" she prompted.

"The game, I ... I just couldn't _see_ it. No matter how well I listened and with Tom's comments. And…" He shook his head and then stretched his neck. "… it was a let down."

Christie was a little skeptical. What did he expect? "But with this?"

"This is different. I can see the whole table in here." He tapped his forehead. "For example, the shot he's about to take; I'm imagining him playing it long, he's right down low near the green and doing it really slow."

Christie watched the action unfold just as Jim described. It was almost creepy." Yeah, how did you know?"

Crack! The balls flew.

"It went in the top pocket and now he's about to tap his cue on the ground."

"Jim, that's amazing." Christie really was impressed. "How…?"

"He's probably top speed player here, so he could afford to take that risky shot. Chances are he would." Jim took another sip of his beer. "Lucky for me the rules of this game include calling every shot you intend, ball and pocket."

"Yes, but how'd you know he'd tap his cue?"

"He does it every time he's happy with a shot. Watch." Jim gestured to the table where the big man was shooting again. The ball rolled up to the pocket and tumbled in slowly. His frown turned to a smile and he put his cue to the floor with a light double tap that Christie could see but not hear.

"And you knew he was happy because you heard it go into the pocket."

Jim smiled and raised his glass to her. "It's pretty easy to follow. Feels good."

She put her hand on his and kissed him on the cheek. "So now I'm going to have to go trawling the pool halls to find you and Hank late at night?" she teased.

"I wish." He snorted. "I still need the blow by blow description." He gestured toward the table. "Can you imagine Big Boy here being happy to filling me in?" he asked, using her nickname for player #1 who was winning the game easily.

She laughed, "No, you're right."

"So you won't have any trouble finding me, 'cause you'll be there." He kept a straight face. Finally the image of her goldfish mouth made him laugh. He forgot to duck and she hit him square on the shoulder.

"How're you going trust me now, when I tell you what he hit?" she teased back, whispering in his ear, but his attention was back on the table in front of them, his head cocked and his brows drawn together in concentration.

"Christie, is that the last one now?" Jim demanded. "They've only got the black to sink right?'

"Yep, and he's trying it now."

"With a Masse?"

"What?"

"The cue almost vertical?'

"Yeah."

She watched and he listened, the silence thickening as the player readied. Crack! Thwok. The sounds of the ball hitting the pocket and sinking were unmistakable.

"Nice shot." Jim's voice projected a little further than he intended.

"Thanks." The words came from someone walking up toward them. "Your table I believe, Madam?"

Jim smiled tightly and cocked his head. Men had always flirted with his wife. It never seemed much of a threat before, but now, when he couldn't judge the look in their eye, when all he had to rely on was their voice, he wondered if it was such a good idea to bring Christie to a place like this. He checked his weapon behind his back and listened carefully.

Christie blushed. "I hope you don't mind that we were watching - Jimmy's been teaching me and…" The smaller biker nodded to the man in front of them, grabbed his leathers and helmet, and walked off. She lost her train of thought; the remaining biker was studying Jim closely.

"Jimmy?"

Jim frowned uncertainly, "Jim Dunbar, and you are?" He held out his hand. A handshake was another way of weighing up someone he didn't know, and gave him a pretty exact positioning.

The man took his hand but did not let go immediately. "Jimmy from Red Hook?" he asked.

Jim held an open expression on his face. "And you are?" he repeated.

"Cracker Jack." Belatedly remembering his manners the man let go of Jim's hand and turned to Christie. "Ah, Jack Benson. Nice to meet you ma'am."

"Christie Dunbar." She shook his hand too, surprised to find it pleasantly cool and dry.

While his wife and Cracker Jack made pleasant acquaintance, Jim remembered the man. Big, beefy, an ace at pool, he couldn't get much more than that from his memory. Jim had only had one run in with him; Jim had won a big game and wondered what he had brought down on himself when he was _invited _to met up behind the pool hall. But it turned out the big man only wanted to request that Jimmy stay off his turf and win his money elsewhere. Easy enough to comply with.

"May I have a word, Jimmy?"

Jim sighed. "Maybe some other time. I said I'd show my wife a few-" Jim started to turn away.

"Jimmy, please?" The man did not sound angry or tense, a bit whiney perhaps. Jim relented.

Christie had taken up position beside him, holding tightly to his arm, just like when they dated all those years ago. He smiled down at her; she had no way of reading the situation. When it came to men jostling for pecking order, she was quite blonde.  
Christie squeezed his arm. "Honey, I'm going to visit the bathroom. I'll be back in a minute."

Jim hesitated.

"I'll be fine, sweetie," she reassured him.

Jim nodded. He couldn't very well say no. "Okay, Honey." He moved back to the chair he had vacated and sat up on the tall stool.

"Don't you remember me?" Cracker Jack asked.

"Sure, I remember you."

"You didn't recognize me. You've been sitting here watching for what, half an hour?"

"Jack, I …" Jim massaged his eyes under his glasses and then removed them, his gaze floated somewhere over Cracker's right shoulder. "Jack, I can't see you so, no offense alright? Christie's never met you and so while it looks like I've been sitting here watching you, in fact I've been watching a game between Big Boy and Swifty." He tried to add a laugh, but it came out pretty weak. "That's what Christie named the two of you."

"You can't see?" Cracker Jack stared at Jim's eyes. "Wow. Well, you hide it well. I never realized." Jim could feel the man's hand moving across the space in front of him. Fuck, he hated when people did that. Jim nodded and moved to get off his chair.

"No, wait. Your wife is still in the bathroom and your game can wait a few minutes, for old time's sake?"

"Old time's sake?" Jim was incredulous. "Last time you saw me you threatened to shove my cue up my ass if I ever showed up in your hall again."

"Yeah, but that was before I found out you were a cop."

"Lucky." Sarcasm dripped from Jim's words.

"Yeah, I probably would have done it if I'd known." Cracker laughed a big belly laugh and slapped Jim on the back lightly. "Things were different then. We were kids and this was my turf you were playing in. You were winning money that was supposed to be mine."

Jim smiled. "That ten grand hurt, huh?" Jim had won some serious money in those days. But it was better than being on the take and he thought of it as moonlighting.

"You have no idea." Jack pulled a sleeve up and revealed a long twisted scar than ran from elbow to wrist. "I got this because I couldn't pay the debt that ten G's was supposed to pay."

"Got what?" Jim grimaced.

"Oh. Here, see." Jack grabbed Jim's hand and brought it to the long ugly scar. Reluctantly, Jim felt the twisted and puckered skin. "It's tattooed over, snakes, to try and hide it, but…"

With a blank face Jim nodded and withdrew his hand. Then he leaned over and said in a loud hard whisper. "Jack, don't grab a blind man like that; it's really quite unnerving." He held his anger in, but really wanted this conversation to end.

Cracker Jack was silent. Jim wished he could see if the man was enbarrassed or angry. A nerve in Jim's jaw started jumping. He listened but could not hear Christie's steps. "Can you see my wife coming back?"

"Yeah, she's chatting with the bar maid." Cracker Jack turned back from checking the bar, and dropped his voice, he sounded embarrassed. "Blind? Like totally blind? Shit I thought you meant … I don't know… you just couldn't see properly or something. Imeanyour wife said you were still a cop and ..."

Jack eventually managed to shut up, feeling like an idiot. "What happened?"

"I got shot."

"Your eyes look fine."

"In the head."

There was some silence while Jack digested this information. "You still on the streets?"

"Yeah, I'm a Detective."

"Wow."

At least he didn't say he thought it was stupid. Jim raised his beer and took a slug. "You probably shouldn't been seen talking to me."

"Nah, I don't hang with the same crowd now. Saw too many of them go to jail. Shit you probably put them there."

"Murderers?"

"Some but no they mostly went in for theft, rape, you know."

Jim gave him a sour smile. "Then I probably didn't send 'em."

"You're a homicide detective?'

"Yep."

"Wow." Renewed respect showed in Jack's voice. "Here's your lady coming now. So what are you two doing tonight?"

Christie stepped up and put her arm around Jim. She looked at him fondly. "Jimmy's showing me how to play pool."

"Well, you got the best teacher. You know this man was the best hustler I ever saw."

"Don't listen to him Christie, and keep your hand on your purse." Jim quipped. Christie was back, he'd done the crappy conversation, and now he was going to get to strike some balls again.

Jack's belly laugh roared again. "Hey, Jimmy, you better use that table if you don't want to lose it."

Jim stood, "Come on, Honey, ready for more?"

"Sure." She put her arm in his hand.

"Good to see you again, Jack." Jim nodded at the biker and followed his wife to the table.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Not Dogs, Roosters

iii

Jack took the seat Jimmy had left and watched fascinated.

They followed the same procedure, but this time after every shot Jim stepped up and named a ball, pointed to where his memory placed the ball. Christie confirmed or altered his aim a little, and he would try the shot. Cracker Jack was impressed. Jimmy wouldn't win a game, but he sunk a few. Probably could get better too, with a few tips and with someone who was more accurate about where the balls were than the wife. Great to watch.

Christie didn't enjoy it nearly as much. Now that Jim was playing shots rather than just practicing strokes, his focus was on the cue, the table, the balls, not on her body.

After a while Jack stood up and walked over. Hearing his step Jim turned and raised his eyebrows. "Cracker?"

"Yeah. Look, ah, I couldn't help but notice, Jimmy, but every shot you take; you're veering to the left."

"Left?"

"Sure."

"How much?"

"Maybe ten, maybe five degrees, it changes."

"Okay." Jim nodded and turned back to the table. "Three ball to right pocket." He reached out and Christie moved his hand directly above the cue ball. He positioned himself and shot. Crack! Followed by the sound of the green ball sliding into the pocket. Thwunk.

"Better?" Jim held down the grin that threatened to escape.

"Absolutely." Jack sounded really happy.

After more shots and a better rate of success, Cracker gave him a few more pointers. Jim was happy for the sound advice. The tension between them passed and Jim found he was glad the big man had shown up. Soon Jim and Christie had cleared the table. A couple of stacks of coins had shown up and it was time to call it a day.

"Christie, we better buy Cracker Jack a drink and then make tracks." Jim put his arm around his wife and she took his cue.

"We'll drop these on the way." She led Jim to the cue stand and then to the bar where they took seats.

"You two going to be back regularly?"

"No, I don't …" Christie started

"Sure, it was…" Jim started. They laughed. Jimmy looked over toward where his wife was. "You don't want to come do this again?"

"Oh, Jimmy, it was fun, but, as a regular thing? Not for me." She looked apologetically at Cracker Jack. "But it seems your experiment was a success, I think you should be able to go and play pool with Marty alright."

Cracker Jack arched his eyebrows. "Marty?"

"I'm new in my squad and I was looking for ways to, you know, break the ice. I wondered if I could perhaps play pool again, but, without someone to describe the runs for me I don't think it'll work."

Christie could see his point**. W**ithout her, he wouldn't have been able to make any of those shots. "Maybe you could ask Tom."

"Yeah, maybe."

Christie could hear in his voice he would never do that. "Jimmy, I'll come a couple of times when you play with Marty, but that's all."

Jim smiled at her. "I appreciate even just this timeYou don't need to feel pressured."

"Marty's a cop, huh?'

"Yep, just like me."

"Where does he play?"

"I don't know, Jack, never thought to ask. Truth was, when he mentioned it, I was pretty certain I'd have no chance of hitting straight. I did better than I thought I would tonight."

"Well, you can always come and practice down here with Shifty and me." Jack laughed at the nickname Christie had unwittingly given his friend from earlier in the night.

She blushed. "We going home, Honey?"

Jack stood up and held out his hand to Jim, forgetting again. Christie was amused and Jack watched her laugh silently at his expense. He covered his faux pas with words. ""We're here most nights. And always on Friday. I'll get you up to speed. This Marty any good? Maybe you can hustle him?"

Jim laughed, "I have no idea. And I don't think that's the way to smooth things over, huh?"

They all laughed. Christie kept hold of his arm and tugged. "Home, Jimmy, home?"

"Sure." Jim drained his beer and stood. He held out his hand. "Good to see you again Cracker, glad there's no hard feelings from bygone years."

"None at all. I'd really like to see you show up here. I meant what I said; I can describe a grid as well as your wife, although I will not be providing the cuddles she's been putting out tonight." He grinned to take the edge off his words.

"We'll see." Smiling, Jim unhooked himself from Christie's clutches, took her arm and she guided him through the maze of tables and out to the car.

The concentration it had taken to hold the table in his head, to bring back the right moves with the cue had taken more out of Jim than he realized. He fell asleep in the car and was surprised when she woke him.

"Jimmy, we're home. Come on. You'll have to walk Hank."

While he was out, she poured another wine and thought about their evening. It felt good to remember those times, when he would be so protective, so manly. The rough edge excited her and being in his arms in a roomful of beer-drinking thugs made her feel like a princess.

The key in the door and Hank trotting over signaled Jim's home coming.

He stepped up behind her as she gazed out the window at the night lights. "You want another beer?" she asked him as he wrapped his arms around her waist. The fresh air had cleared the pool hall smells from him and she enjoyed the slight chill on his skin.

He breathed in the pool hall smell that still clung to her, the slightly fruity wine on her breath and her perfume that floated. She must have primped while he was out with Hank. The mix was heady and reminded him of their courting days again. "No, I want to thank you for a really good night. I haven't had that much fun in… well, a long time. So thanks." He kissed her on the top of her head.

When she didn't respond, he asked her, "Was it awful for you?"

She turned in his arms to face him. She leaned forward so he could nuzzle her hair. "No, it wasn't that bad, although I felt like a third wheel after Jack arrived. But before that it was fun and kind of sexy. Maybe we should get a pool table for the apartment." She joked and wiggled a little, hoping he would get the hint.

"Stay here." He took the wine from her hand and walked away to place it on the table. She watched him move across the floor In their apartment, she could often forget he was blind, he moved so confidently, sure of where everything was. When he returned, he turned her so she was facing the window again. Gently he applied pressure until she bent over, as if she were at a pool table, her bottom thrust out and her arms long. "Is this what you found sexy?"

"Um, yes**," s**he whispered, her voice thickening.

"Hold the cue like this." He mimed and ran his hands from her small ones up her slender arms, back to her torso and waist, being a little less circumspect than at the hall. He smoothed her skirt down her legs, "knees bent, just a little to give you bounce." He stroked the inside of her thigh, the back of her knees. Then he ran his hands back up and she gasped at the electricity between them.

She turned in his arms and kissed him deeply.

It was a couple of weeks before Jim entered the pool hall again. There had been a heavy case load at work but it was finally under control and he had a night to himself. On the way home, Jim made a spur of the moment decision; he and Hank took a different train and after a couple of questions from the station master Jim headed confidently for the pool hall.

Entering, Jim listened for the clink of glasses and the tell tale spurt of the beer tap. He located the bar on the far side and directed Hank to take him through the maze of tables to the bar, wondering if he was passing anyone else who knew him.

At the bar, he ordered a beer and asked after Cracker Jack.

"Yeah, he's here, stepped out for a moment. I'm sure he'll be back." The barman slid his beer over. "Want me to tell you when he shows?"

"Thanks."

Jim listened to the sounds of the bar and the hall. The crack of the balls hitting, the groans as people missed, or cheers as they made a shot. He relaxed a notch further.

"Hey, Jimmy!" An unexpected whack on the back and Cracker Jack was with him. "I was beginning to wonder if we'd scared you off."

"No, just been busy with work."

"Oh, what do you do?" A voice scratched from overuse, alcohol or cigarettes, or all three enquired.

"Ah, Jimmy, this is my friend Len." He leaned over and whispered in Jim's ear. "Shifty."

Jim nodded and held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Len. You had some good moves the other week."

"Oh, yeah, thanks."

Jim ignored the question in his voice. "So, you guys played already tonight?"

"We had one round but since you are here, how about we play Three Ball, you know just to get you started?"

Jim opened his arms. "That'd suit me great, but what about Len here, you okay with that?"

"Me, sure, maybe I can win for once!" Len didn't sound too sorry and Jim assumed Cracker wouldn't have suggested it if it wasn't going to work. Three Ball was a game that relied less on skill and more on luck, it was easy going and a perfect way to ease in.

"Alright." Jim downed the last of his beer and pulled out his wallet. "My shout for the round; maybe if I can get you drunk enough, you won't notice when I move the balls around."

A scratchy laugh from Len and warning growl from Cracker; he had hit the mark.

They took their bottles and Jim slapped his thigh, Hank sat up and Len jumped back.

"Holy shit a police dowg!"

Jim smiled and reassured the smaller man, "No, he's a Guide Dog Len, you know, seeing-eye dog?"

"He don't bite?" There was fear in Len's voice, real fear. By the end of the night, he'd know that Hank was nowhere near as scary as he apparently looked.

"Not unless I lose." Jim smiled and Cracker laughed. "Lead on, I'll follow."

They wound through the tables. By the sound of it, Len or Cracker spent more time watching him and Hank than watching where they were going; curses and glasses fell indiscriminately around them, and Jim enjoyed the idea of someone else causing the ruckus.

At the table, they worked out their strategy. Cracker would describe the grid whenever Jim asked and the run after each man shot. Jim found it took a little while to get the image back in his head but once he had it, it was enough to hear the runs as they came. Locating the cue ball was harder. Cracker wanted to give Jim the option of touching it himself but Jim wouldn't hear of it. "No way, that's the most basic rule in pool; no one touches the cue ball. It would feel like I was cheating no matter what."

"But not if we made it a rule."

Jim shook his head and Len was silent. Jim really didn't want any concession he didn't need. Every one came with a price tag.

"No, just give me time, and if I lose a few games while I get it, well so be it."

Len finally spoke up. "How about we hold your hand over it like your pretty lady did when she was here?'

Jim shrugged. "Sure, if you wouldn't feel too weird."

Within a few rounds, Jim's game improved, and although Jim came in last, it wasn't the whitewash it could have, some would say, should have been.

They upped the ante to cut-throat, a slightly more difficult game but still friendly despite the name, and Jim jumped ahead of Len in the final rounds. The pleasure it brought him was enormous. He checked his watch. "Guys, I gotta go."

"Oh, no, but it's early." Len whined.

"Nah, I've had a really good run and I'm going to leave while I'm ahead. You two get back into something more respectable than cut-throat and I'll see you again. If you're up for it that is?" Jim threw the question out, suddenly unsure if they'd had a good time too.

"It was good. I mean playing was good and, to be honest, watching you was amazing. When Cracker told me you might turn up I thought he was nuts. When you showed up, I thought you were worse than nuts, but I can see now you musta been a great, great player when you could see. You got the moves. You just can't always work out where to aim them." His long speech over, Len, shook Jim's hand and walked over to Hank. "Ah, how to I say good bye to the doggie?"

Jim smiled. Sometimes rules had to be broken. "You can pat him on the head, Len." Jim squatted next to his dog and ruffled his fur.

"And you guarantee he won't bite me?"

"I guarantee it." The thought of Hank biting anyone almost made Jim laugh out loud. But he held it in; Len was obviously scared of dogs and Hank was a large German Shepherd. Many people thought all German Shepherds were vicious police dogs.

Hank's head rose up as Len patted him and the man took a quick step backwith a sharp intake of breath. "Hank, say goodbye to Len." Jim gave Hank the signal for a handshake and was rewarded by a happy gasp from Len.

"Wow, he's shaking hands with me." Len pumped Hank's paw up and down vigorously. "Look it, Cracker, he's shakin' hands with me." Jim pictured Hank grinning and stood up again.

"Thanks for the game, Len." He held out his hand and got a good strong shake in return.

"Anytime, and you can bring the dawg," Len said magnanimously.

Jim shook hands with Cracker and felt his hand disappear in the big man's grasp. "Jim, let's swap numbers, sometimes I come here alone, when Len can't get away and maybe, if you got time, we can brush your game up. You know."

"I'd like that." Jim pulled a card from his wallet. "You won't go flashing that around though."

"No, ah, how do I give you mine?"

"You got a card?"

Cracker laughed.

Jim reddened. "Alright. Just write it on a piece of paper. I'll get Christie to put it in my phone."

A moment later a scrap of paper was shoved into his hand. He pocketed it. "Good night gentlemen, I'm off, see you next time."

He followed Hank through the maze of pool tables and drinkers, tired, smiling, and happy. It was the first of many nights over the next months. As usual, Jim was happiest when honing his skills and making headway toward a goal.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Not Dogs, Roosters

Iv

The squad

At the end of a Tour

"Hey, Jim, some of us are going to play pool after the 1PP thing next week, why don't you come?" Marty spoke over his shoulder as he readied to leave for the night.

"Next week?"

"Yeah, we thought we'd make a night of it, seeing as 1PP are stealing most of Friday evening."

"I might, Marty. We'll see." He returned his earpiece to finish the report. But his mind stayed on the offer.

"You mean that?" Karen walked up on his right.

"Yeah, maybe. You going?"

She came around, plonked on his desk, and lowered her voice. "We're alone. It would be really good if you came along. You know team building and all that." Truth was, Karen hated these work functions but felt she had to go for her career. If it was 'bring family' she was often the only single one, if it was just the guys, everyone else had their partners She ended up the third wheel with Tom and Marty. Despite her original misgivings, Dunbar was a good guy and although she kind of understood it, she hated that he got out of these functions by playing the blind card, but more, she hated that her partner wasn't there.

He nodded. "The boss has already had that conversation with me."

"Good, so you're coming?"

Jim huffed then asked, "Let me ask you something."

"Shoot."

"You going to play pool?"

She blew out along breath. "I'd like to, but seeing as how I _suck_, probably only for ten minutes before I get kicked off the tables. That is if I can get someone to team with me."

He nodded. "What games will they play?"

"They have all sorts because there are some that are really good and some that suck. Like me. The early rounds are basics like Cut Throat, then 8 Ball and the heavy hitters play Snooker."

Jim chewed his lip. "And it's a week away?

"Why are you asking so many questions?"

"I might have a way for you to play a bit longer. But I need to know what you think and if it will work. You got an extra hour tonight?"

At the hall, they met with Cracker. Karen looked him over. When he went to the bar to buy her a drink, she whispered, "These guys all look like they should be behind bars, Jim!"

Jim smiled. "Cracker's okay. I checked him out. No record."

She nodded. "If you say so."

Later, when she was at the bar, Cracker nodded in Karen's direction and whispered to Jim. "She has cop written all over her ass."

"You can see her ass?" was Jim's only comment and he refused to tell her why Cracker was in stitches when she returned.

Cracker watched as Karen went for shot after shot. He set easy ones, hard ones, breaks, the lot. Then he put Jim through the rounds again. Cracker Jack then asked Karen a bunch of questions about previous pool nights.

Two hours later Cracker sat them down at the table. "From what you tell me, Marty is a middling player. Flashy but no wind. "Jim, you have no chance at anything higher than an 8 Ball game on a good day, but with the strategy we worked out, if Karen can be accurate with the grid, I think you have a chance at impressing them."

"Karen's the best observer I know. I'd drive a car if she would describe the road for me."

Cracker and Karen stood with their mouths open staring Jim until he laughed. "By the sudden silence, I assume you finally found something you two can agree on."

"I'll agree not to drive, if you two will agree to a practice game without arguing." Jim turned to Karen. "That means you gotta admit he knows what he's teaching." Then he turned to Cracker. "And stop hitting on my partner or I will take you out and show you what I learned in my martial arts class this morning." Jim flashed a big smile.

Both agreed and they headed for the table once more.

They finished up early at the squad; Fisk came out of his office. "So I'll see you all at the function?" If he had to attend this thing there was no way any of his officers would get away with skipping it.

Various versions of yes followed him out the door.

"Dunbar, you coming to the pool hall after?" Marty asked.

In the hallway, Fisk's steps stopped for a moment, unnoted by any save Jim.

"Yeah, Marty, I'll be there."

"Great. Although, I don't suppose you can really join in, but you can have a drink with us, right?"

"I'll have a drink. You guys play doubles at all?"

"Yeah, on the lower tables, usually. Some nights we go all the way."

"Well, I might even try to hit a few balls then. You up for it, Karen?"

"Sure."

Marty crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and grabbed an invisible white cane. He pretended to walk to Tom's desk. Once there, he turned the cane into pool cue and mined sending several things flying off Tom's desk.

Karen rolled her eyes, Tom tried not to laugh. Jim sighed and shook his head, "Knock yourself out, Marty."

"Christie's not coming?" Tom asked.

"Nah, she's got a work function," Jim informed them, most of his attention on Fisk's steps that had started up again.

At the quarterly 1PP function, it was all Jim could do to smile, nod, and shake hands, meet new officers and listen to the droning of the quarterly update. Usually he was really interested, but tonight, all he could think about was pool.

They dropped Hank at home and he changed his clothes. Then headed to Karen's so she could change. In the car the silence was thick in the air.

"Karen, you're quiet. You don't wanna do this, you don't have to. I can have a few drinks, you can describe some games, you know." He kept the disappointment out of his voice.

"You kidding?" Karen sounded incredulous. "I've hardly been able to think about anything else all day. I think I learned a thing or two I'm looking forward to showing off. But even more, I want to see Marty's face when you send the ball into the pocket time after time."

Jim grinned. "Hey, that last game with Cracker was a fluke. I probably won't be so good tonight."

"Phfft!" The sound from Karen made him laugh. "Jim, no pressure, just the fact that you're going to get up and do it, and not look like an idiot – I'm gonna feel like we've achieved something."

Jim smiled again. He could be confident of that at least. With the strategies they had, the practice he'd been putting in for many weeks now, and the last three nights of working the table with Karen, he was confident he would not look like an idiot. He carefully avoided any thought of doing well, though. He was a cop after all; there was no need to jinx the night.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Not Dogs, Roosters

V (Final)

Squad social night

The hall they entered was definitely several steps up from the one they had been practicing in. The smell was cleaner, the sounds more subdued. Karen described mahogany tables with low hung lighting, captains chairs and deep blue carpets for him with the same precision she used at a crime scene.

"Hey, there's a table free, want to warm up?"

"What and put out an alert? No way."

She snickered. This was fun. They were hustlers like Bonnie and Clyde.

"Come on Bonnie," he said in an exaggerated accent. "I'll buy ya a drink."

They were still at the bar when Tom and Marty came up. "Why'd it take you an hour to do a twenty minute run from the squad? You let Dunbar do the driving?" Marty sounded pleased.

Tom frowned at Marty. "W wondered if you were going to show."

"I had to go drop Hank off."

"You think the loud noises might put him off?" Tom asked.

Jim shrugged. "Could be."

"So, did Karen fill you in on what we do these nights?" Marty asked perching himself on a bar stool next to Jim.

"A bit. Why don't you tell me, you know, a guy's perspective?"

Before Marty could get started Karen took her drink. "While you guys talk I'm going to the ladies room and then say hi to some friends. Jim, I'll be back before it starts."

Jim, Marty, and Tom took up stations at the bar. This was as easy a way as any to say hi to the other cops they wanted to connect up with. Everyone had to come past the bar for a drink.

Soon enough a bell sounded. "Alright people, listen up." A voice came through a small mike and good quality speakers spread around the hall. "NYPD Homicide versus NYPD Vice. Now Vice, you should have the advantage, seeing as how you spend half your tour hanging around in places like this!" The crowd jeered good naturedly. "The trade off starts in a few minutes. We got enough for close to a dozen teams each side, two per team, names in the hat to pick your order. Every round is an elimination round."

Jim's nerves wound a little tighter. The jeering, the reading of the house rules, were at once so familiar to him from days gone by and enticing like a new experience just waiting to be tasted. Like so many familiar things they were another game in a world without sight.

"Looks like Karen's dumped you, Jim, maybe she found a player to team with?" Marty smiled.

Jim had no concerns Karen would dump him for another player but she had to show up soon or they'd not even make it to round one.

"You two teaming together?" Jim asked Marty and Tom.

"No way, Jim, I like to win." Tom sounded shocked. "See ya Marty. Get ready to be creamed."

"Ha ha, Tom. Nothing doing. I'm teaming with Goldstein, he's a real hustler."

"If he shows up." Tom ribbed Marty and left.

"Is that Goldstein from the 77th?" Jim asked, remembering a small Jewish cop with glasses. "You haven't seen him yet?"

"Nah, I swear he'd be late to his own funeral, that guy, but he plays good."

"How good is Tom?"

Marty cleared his throat. "Ah, who knows? One day he wins the next he loses." Jim's smile increased, he knew Marty's tell. Tom must be good. He was probably a very consistent but quiet player.

"Marty, Jim, good to see you here tonight. Two B&C." Lieutenant Fisk ordered from the bar and then left.

"Does the Lieutenant play?"

"Yes, brought home the prize last time he played. His partner is the Lieutenant from the 2 -5."

"Winchels?"

"Yep."

Jim nodded, respect showed in his voice. "He's good."

"You know him?"

"Sure, I was at the 2 -5 for a couple of years. We all played."

"You used to play, too? You know, before?" Marty's eyes narrowed as he watched Dunbar's expression closely.

"Yep."

Marty searched fruitlessly for some hint in Jim's face. "Any good?"

"I was alright."

Marty's face showed disgust. Nothing. Sometimes this guy was a closed book. Other times, he was like an 8 year old.

Karen arrived. "Jim, I'm here. Sign." Without looking at Marty, she shoved a card under Jim's hand and a pen into his fingers. "Anywhere." He felt the edge of the card and signed. "J. Dunbar" and she ran for the hat.

Goldstein waltzed up behind her and dropped something in the hat too.

Then he walked over to Marty and Jim at the bar. "I signed for you, Russo. It's Mervin right?"

"Very funny." Marty sighed. "Where you been, Goldie? I thought you weren't going to make it."

"Have I ever been late?"

Marty just shook his head and pointed his bottle at Jim. "Danny Goldstein, Jim Dunbar."

Jim nodded and raised his beer with a smile while Karen drew a chair up next to him. "We've met, Danny, when you were a narc. On that Stevensen case."

"Oh yeah, I remember. Good to see you again Dunbar."

"Danny, this is my partner Karen Bettancourt."

"Hi Karen. Are you in again?"

"Yep, you know me, Danny, I never quit."

"That's true."

Marty raised his eyebrows at Karen.

"How do you two know each other, dated?" Jim teased, knowing Danny would only ever date another Jew.

"Jim," She admonished, "Danny and I go way back. We did some units together at John Jay and then spent some time together in uniform."

"You're a lucky guy to get Karen as a partner, Jim."

"Sure am," Jim acknowledged, sincerity clear in his tone.

Karen smiled and drank in the compliments. "So which one of you silver-tongued men are going to buy me a drink?"

"That'd be me, Karen. Bar keep around?" Jim pulled his billfold from his jacket.

"Here, Sir."

The voice came unexpectedly close, Jim blinked and held out his note. "Drink for the lady and my friends if they're ready."

The three detectives ordered and the bartender took the twenty from Jim. "And you, Sir?"

"No, I'm nursing, thanks."

Cracker had noticed that Jim's game went down hill quickly, even on light beer, so one was his limit until they were out of the game. In the old days he'd drink the players under the table and still clean up a table faster than anyone else. But it was an 'adjustment' he was happy to trade for the joy of playing pool.

Marty and Goldstein continued to tease Karen. Jim enjoyed the easy banter but kept his ears on the tables being called. He cocked his head - "Bettancourt and Dunbar" - the call came from the other side of the room. "That's us." He stood and Karen happily left the others. Together they went off to their table.

Danny and Marty watched Karen lead Jim carefully through the closely packed tables, single file. "You're kidding! I thought she said she was trying!" Danny's mouth hung open.

Marty raised his bottle. "When are we up?"

"Second round."

"Well, let's go watch Karen and the bat." Marty grinned; this was going to provide some good material for the new week.

On the other side of the room, Fisk sat with his pool partner and watched as Jim and Karen stepped up to the table. House rules were given and there was a moment's confusion as Karen explained how she would be showing Jim where the cue ball was. Although there was no official referee, there was a spokesperson for every game who made sure the game was played clean. Theirs just happened to be Tom. Good choice Fisk thought. Tom was well respected and considered fair but tough. He was a good player in his own right too.

Tom looked around the waiting audience after Karen's explanation. "We all cool with that?"

"Sure, as long as you watch and make sure he doesn't touch anything." Jim didn't recognize the voice.

Jim was impassive. Inside his head, he was wondering if Marty was watching and whether playing was going to work for or against him in their own little pissing contest. But the word would get around that he was here and at least the Lieutenant would know he had taken his advice and was making an effort.

Their opponents were Guest and Smithy from Vice, and they won the toss. They broke but pocketed nothing. Karen described the grid quietly to Jim who nodded, asked a question, and then stood up. Cracker had lent him a cue, which he'd been playing with for several weeks now and knew well. It was an Adam from Japan, had great squirt, and would play true. He felt quiet and calm as he stood at the table.

He held his hand over the coordinates Karen had given for the cue ball.

"Exactly." She said.

He nodded "Nine yellow to right centre pocket," he said, not loudly, but in the silence around the table, it was like a shout.

Jim bent over the table; he lifted his head and imagined the balls and the table from this angle. It was an easy shot; most people would manage it without much fuss, but no one out there thought he had a chance. He could feel it in the indrawn breaths, the tension. He pushed the thought of an audience behind him and focused. He relaxed, pulled back and Clack! Whump! The ball flew straight and true, perhaps a little hard, but into the pocket and did not jump out.

Karen was at his side a moment later. "Wow, Jimmy."

He gave her a smile. "Only the first one, Karen, tell me where the cue ball ended up." He got her back onto the job.

She gave the coordinates.

"Nothing else moved?"

"No, it went straight past everything else."

"Alright. I need to be on the other side, with the cue ball at 12 o'clock." He took her arm and they moved. Trailing his hand around the table worked in the other hall. Here, it might be read as an infraction.

He questioned her about the position of several balls. There was another easy shot. While the gabble increased around him, he took the shot and sunk the ball.

This time though his cue ball moved several others and the final positions left nothing easy.

"Can you make it?" Karen whispered.

He shrugged. "Not likely, it needs a good bank shot."

"Two blue to end pocket." Although his voice was calm, he had little trust he could do this. He hadn't practiced bank shots much, and when he had, he had been largely unsuccessful.

He hit the ball too much to the right and it spun, pushing several balls, one of which moved his three ball out of range. The noise of the balls told him he'd failed, but he had lost his image of the layout on the table for now. He stepped back and conferred with Karen.

He had the table clear in his head again by the time Guest called his shot. "Three red into the corner."

Jim frowned. That was not the best shot to take, and it was a flashy shot. There were people who could make it, but Jim doubted that Guest was one of them. Sure enough Guest missed and his partner groaned. Quiet laughter in the background disappeared as quickly as it started.

"He's glaring at them, and now at us." Karen filled Jim in.

"Don't glare back. Keep all your attention on our game; their's doesn't matter." He schooled her in the psychology of pool. Inside, Jim smiled. This Guest was someone he would have loved to hustle when he was a kid. Guest thought he was a better player than he really was, always over-stepping his skills. Jim had made a lot of money on men like this in his youth.

It was Karen's turn. There was an easy shot, which he coached her through, and she pocketed neatly. Then once again they were boxed in. "Karen, I can't see how you can score here, but you can set us up for next time."

"How?"

As he explained, the crowd was getting annoyed and voiced it. "Come on, play already."

"You said we could discuss each shot," Karen threw back.

"Karen, that was for Jim, not for you. Take your shot." Tom wasn't going to go soft on her now, but this game was really interesting.

"Okay." She patted Jim's arm and stepped back to the table. "I got it." She played her shot superbly.

With a flourish, she walked off to join him. His face lit up as she described the positioning. If Guest behaved as he expected, he would play right into Jim's hands.

True to his nature, Guest attempted another flashy shot, moved several unintended balls, and stepped back. "Go for it bat boy," he whispered, venom in his voice. "Can you _see_ any good shots out there for you?" Karen stepped in close and growled, forcing Guest to move off.

Jim ignored the jibe and listened to Karen as she ran the grid for him.

He stepped up. "Fourteen green in left pocket."

The run went smooth.

Karen gave him the next position. "Take me." When they got there, he wasn't completely sure of what was in front of him. He held his hand over the ball, she corrected; he was off by several inches.

"Eleven red into the right corner." Another easy shot.

They repeated the procedure. Jim could feel the tension rising in himself, in the crowd. Every shot he made increased the expectations around him. He took his time, questioned Karen, and clarified something. "Gotta move, Jim," Tom prodded. This game had most of the crowd. Usually there wasn't his much interest until the end of the night when the ace's played off.

Jim nodded. "I'm ready."

"Twelve purple to end pocket." The ball had to travel most of the length of the table, it would take a big hit. He was gambling now; he knew he wasn't ready to use so much force. Like he said to Christie that night months ago, you needed to be accurate to use force. The seven brown ball hit the pocket and bounced back out onto the table. The collective gasp and sigh of the crowd showed that it had grown a fair bit since they had started.

He grimaced. "Sorry, Karen."

She grunted. She hated the way Guest looked at her, like she had no right to be there. He was probably old school, didn't like women on the force. She wanted to rub his face in a deep pile of dirty losing.

Smithy made his next one. Then he overshot and pocketed the cue ball. He groaned. Karen flashed him a big thank you. It was her shot.

Even though it was her turn Karen ran the grid for Jim, she wanted to make her shot count. Tom didn't object. They had two to go and two easy shots.

"You choose," Jim told her. You can make either. Think about where the cue ball will end up after you pocket and that'll help you decide."

"Right." She nodded, this was a strategy game, more about thinking than she'd ever realized. She took her position, aimed and the cue moved smoothly into the little ball, knocking her target in with a satisfying plop.

She came back to Jim. "Done."

Jim could hear the Cheshire grin in her voice, he bit his lip. "You did well. But…"

"What?"

"Where's the cue ball now?"

"Oh shit." It was perched right on the edge of the pocket. How was she going to avoid sending it in? "Any advice?"

"Cross your fingers." He smiled.

She tried, but as Jim predicted, the cue ball rolled in and disappeared. Now both sides had pocketed the cue ball once each. Jima and Karen had one ball to go, Guest and Smith had four. But four in a row was not unheard of and Guest managed to subdue his flash long enough to bag two. They were even and Guest had the shot.

On a roll now, Guest pulled up his sleeves and called a fairly difficult shot. Jim wondered if he would manage. Jim could have done it a year or so ago- he would have claimed t be able to do it blindfolded, he knew better now. Guest was pretty confident that he was good enough today.

But no, it careened wildly and didn't hit anything. He cursed and stamped his foot hard as he walked past Jim. Jim stepped back from the unexpected sound right in front of him and bumped into one of the watching cops, a glass shattered on the floor and beer fumes floated up. Karen guided Jim's hand to the tall bar table next to him. Blood flooded his face and he turned, hoping he hadn't just showered the cop in beer. "I'm sorry. Did I get you?"

"No harm done, Detective. Guest's bad behavior, not yours."

"Thanks." Jim nodded and turned back to the game. Karen walked him around the table, describing the last few placements and taking him to the side where the cue ball lay snug against the cushion. Jim nodded, difficult but not impossible, it would take a very light stroke, and more accuracy than he could count on, but he'd give it his best. "Black to top right."

The sound of the 8 ball sliding into its pocket was sweet and as he listened to make sure the cue did not follow he lost the sound as the crowd released its community breath.

They'd done it. They'd won the game. Never mind that it was only the first elimination, they'd won. Karen's grin reached from ear to ear.

The crowd was buzzing; the blind detective and his partner had played well and taken the game soundly. "Well done, Jim." Tom stood in front of them.

"Thanks ref." Jim held out his hand and the two colleagues shook.

Jim smiled a satisfied smile and turned to Karen. "Beer o'clock?"

"Sure." She linked arms with him and they sauntered off.

Marty, stepped up to the bar next to Karen. "Impressive, Karen, Jim. Seeing you put Guest in his place was a treat. Wanna watch our game?"

"Sure, we'll get a drink and be over. Karen?"

Jim ordered a mineral water, although he felt like a beer. Karen had another girl drink and they watched Marty and Danny scrape through. Marty played some very good shots but missed some that should have been easy. Jim thought Marty could improve a fair bit, if he got his anger management under control.

The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur. Karen and Jim made two more rounds before being soundly defeated by a pair of Lieutenant's from Vice.

"Sorry, Karen, truth is, I'm bushed. I played that last shot with no idea of where I was aiming."

She laughed, "I could see that, but hey, the crowd loves you. You wanna go watch some more?"

Jim yawned again. "I'll sit this one out, have a real drink. Come get me before Tom's game huh?"

"Sure." She left Jim at a table and noticed a couple of officers from vice join him as soon as she left. She grinned. So much for a time out. He'd be answering questions all night if she left him there.

Karen went to watch the Lieutenant and his partner as they moved up the ranks. Marty joined her. He and Goldstein had dipped the round after Karen and Jim. They commiserated together while being wowed by Fisk's skill.

Karen picked Jim up again before Tom's game, and together, they cheered when Tom pocketed and grumbled when his partner pocketed the 8 ball too early and broke his cue in such a spectacular misstep that they had to pull out of the game.

The final round was Fisk and his partner against two vice squad lieutenants. Jim and Karen stood in the crowd, Karen took him play by play through the game and his cheer rose with everyone else's as the last ball was smashed into the pocket. She looked up at her partner and smiled. She'd never seen him so happy. Men and sports: Amazing.

As they were getting to the car, Karen spotted Tom and Marty. Their car was parked a short distance away. Marty stopped, and knelt down in the street to tie his shoelace. Tom walked the rest of the way to Karen's car.

"Tom." Karen quietly identified the footsteps for Jim.

"Hey, Jim, that was a real good show tonight." Tom was sincere and a little embarrassed that Marty had dropped back, but he wanted to show his respect for Jim's game. "I'd really have liked to play you, you know, before. You must have been something."

"We would have had a good game, Tom." Jim's expression was a little wistful.

Karen watched the two men. From what Cracker Jack has said out of Jim's earshot, when he had his sight Jim would have been playing the end game tonight. It reminded her she knew very little of her partner's before he lost his sight, what he had lost, what he had given up.

Tom turned to head back, but Marty must have changed his mind. He walked up the street.

"Good night, hey, Jim?" Marty asked.

"Yeah, I gotta thank you for that, Marty," Jim owned up. "If you hadn't started on about bowling and pool months ago, I wouldn't have had much of a night tonight. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Marty sounded mollified. "You up for a friendly game? Me and Tom versus you and Karen, this Friday?'

Jim shook his head. "I don't know, Marty. We'll see." But he smiled. It was okay. He could play pool. He could hold his own, and hell, he'd had fun.

Gary Fisk stood at the window of the pool hall watching. He'd had a moment of doubt when Tom went ahead alone. But then Russo had stepped up. It was a step in the right direction. A self satisfied grin simmered under Fisk's usual stern face. Dunbar had just needed to understand it wasn't about him.


End file.
